


Erotic Ficlets

by mycapeisplaid



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-05-08 11:13:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5495078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycapeisplaid/pseuds/mycapeisplaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Studies in erotica.  Unbeta'd, not Britpicked!  Each stands alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Auburn

John keeps a picture on his phone. It’s password protected as best he knows how, and sometimes, when he’s away at a conference, his hands shake a bit as he tries to key it in. He’s tired and lonely and horny and misses home and the man in it. 

The photo is of Sherlock’s backside. His rather glorious bare backside, on display. His legs spread open as he kneels on the bed, testicles hanging loosely between them, his weight on his elbows. John’s not an expert with the camera on his phone. He knows little about taking photographs in low light, and this one’s not as clear as it could be. 

It really doesn’t matter, though. John’s memorised every part of Sherlock, including the one he’s thinking about now as he slips his free hand inside his pyjama bottoms. 

The rest of the photos he’d taken that night were deleted the following morning, but this one -- this one John’s kept. He’s somewhat embarrassed he keeps a photo of Sherlock’s arse on his phone, but his kink is stronger than his shame. It’s not the curve of Sherlock’s back, albeit lovely, that makes John’s heart beat out of his chest. It’s not his long, strong legs, or his smooth, soft skin. It’s not his cock, either, which John loves dearly and suckles without a hint of bashfulness. 

No, what really gets him going is what’s only a shadowy suggestion in this photo. For between those perfect arsecheeks is what makes John’s cheeks burn and his balls ache. What’s tucked away, secret and hidden. For John’s eyes only.

While not as profuse as the wiry, shining curls that frame Sherlock’s prick, the skin immediately surrounding sweet pucker of Sherlock’s hole is also kept cosy by a dusting of hair. And it is _this_ masculine feature that sends John right round the bend. He loves to pet the kinky hairs with his thumb, slick them to Sherlock’s skin with his tongue. He loves the texture as he slides his own cock between Sherlock’s cheeks, love to coat the entire cleft with his come and then swipe his fingers through the mess.

The photo is dark, but John doesn’t need to see. He closes his eyes and he sees what no one else is allowed to: all those secret little hairs? They’re _auburn_.


	2. Throb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock awakens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd

It’s a funny kind of ache.

Almost pleasant. A coil of anticipation.

John sleeps on, exhausted after a grueling case. I’ve slept my fill and awoken pressed against his back. I’m intensely aroused.

I must have been for some time now, my body responding to his as we slept, my cock filling, expanding, seeking the warmth of John’s body. I shift a bit, seeking to extract my arm from underneath John’s head. I’ve been curled up too long; my body longs to stretch. I do so as gently as I can as not to wake John. Not yet.

The stretch has done nothing but heighten my arousal, my heart speeding up, pumping more blood to my groin. John notices my change of position and seeks contact again. He does this now, sometimes, his body seeking the comfort of mine even in slumber. I enjoy his warmth, his solid presence. Now, the hard line of his penis against my thigh. He sighs, but sleeps on.

His arm is over my waist. I take his hand and place it over where I ache. For I do ache now. I throb.

Once, long ago over some holiday I’ve since deleted, I spent a weekend with several of my insufferable cousins. One of them proudly showed me the romance novels he’d nicked from our grandmother’s bookcase. He and the others giggled and blushed over the lurid descriptions of genitals, marvelling over ridiculous phraseology and cliched descriptions of women’s breasts, thighs, and vulva. They sniggered over the adjectives used to describe the male anatomy, words like “turgid” and “swollen” and “engorged” and “throbbing”.

At the cusp of puberty, I remember only feeling mildly confused as to how anything that was turgid, swollen, engorged, and throbbing would make sexual reproduction appealing. I knew turgid (rigor morits) and swollen (the creek near our home) and engorged (leech) and throbbing (nose after being punched by Lucas Thompson in the third form) as words only to describe more unsavoury characteristics. From what I could gather from my sophomoric cousins, throbbing penises were supposed to be proud of and somehow produced sexual pleasure. Mine, as of then, had been nothing more than a tool to aid urination and an occasional morning irritance. I sincerely hoped it would never throb.

“Throb” is a funny word, anyway. John would be delighted if I said as much, called a word amusing. He holds sentiment for certain words, finds power in others. Some words John chooses his words wisely. He wields them with precision. Other words he throws carelessly around, curses or swears, terms of endearment (for me!). I find words practical. A specific word can make all the difference in the world when trying to solve a case. Auburn hair is not the same as red. “Sort of pudgy” is not the same as “doughy” or “corpulent”. Words should not be funny. But I must admit that some of them are more delightful to the tongue than others. “Cacophony” simply sounds nice, what with all its consonants and middle digraph. I like the sound of the words “conundrum” and “octogenarian”. Some words sound particularly vulgar (fecund) even if they are not, and others sound pleasing to the ear while carrying particularly negative connotations (presumptuous). “Throb” can mean life-giving pulse, the mighty push of every heartbeat, or the thump of a bass line reverberating through bodies packed onto a dance floor in an underground club. Throb is the distinctly uncomfortable (even painful) sensation of a migraine, of manacled hands, or a blow to the back of the head. Throb is what wounds do.

John shifts in his sleep. His hand, at least, realises its location and gives me a bit of a grope. I tilt my hips into it, press my cock into his palm. 

Here, in the bedroom, my penis becomes “cock”. It becomes “prick”. Here, intercourse becomes “fucking” and “lovemaking.” 

His hips wriggle against mine. He’s waking. My pulse speeds up.

John marvels at my body, the way it goes through the sexual response cycle as everyone else’s does. He still finds it completely absorbing, as if I had never had a libido before. I have, of course, explained to him that I simply abstained, that I could control myself. He’d just never had the occasion to witness it, before. What would he have done, anyway, before we were lovers? How would have responded, had he seen me in the shower, in my bed, or occasionally on the sofa, indulging in a bit of self-pleasure. (“I would have bloody well joined in,” he says now. He wouldn’t have. It would have been a bit not good. That was before. I do not think of before often. Rather upsetting.)

John makes a sleepy sound, shifts his own hips to accommodate his erection, and then he, too, stretches, rolling himself stomach-down. His hand stays where it is, cupping me through the thin fabric of my pyjamas. “You’re hard,” he mutters into his pillow, before righting himself and snuggling in properly, his head under my chin. His hand right hand fumbles with the drawstring, eventually pulls it, and slips his hand under. “Been awake long?”

God it feels good. “Not long,” I manage. My testicles actually ache. It’s been six days. I’m afraid I’ve grown rather fond of sex, my body getting accustomed to fairly regular orgasms. The brain craves its hormone bath, the body yearns for its lover’s touch.

I once concluded that if humans had such things as souls, they would surely reside within the brain. That is the site of all the action, anyway. The rest of the body slugs along, a meat puppet for the cerebral puppetmaster. Matters of the heart? Nonsense. Yet is is the chest, the thoracic cavity, that home for the workhorse of the body, that aches when we experience grief, loss, depression. The brain may be the ringleader but the heart is the stage: it houses the lion tamer (courage), the trapeze artists (trust), the clowns (mirth), the performing animals (loyalty), the bearded ladies (lust???). John is no lady, but his beard, the thought of it scratching my thighs, my bum, the tickle of his whiskers against my perineum makes me...

“Jesus, love. You’re so keyed up.”

...throb.

That heart of mine is pumping blood at 92 beats per minute right down to that penis (cock) (prick) of mine. The brain has decided that the chest is where I should feel love, the place that aches when I look at John, when I touch him, when we part. It is where I place his hand when I lack the words to tell him. My heart wants to belong to John, and since I can’t easily carve it from my chest (generally results in death would be more than a bit not good) it has decided it will move its operations (thud, thud, thud) south where John can have easier access. With every pulse, John holds my lifeblood (bless this, says the heart as it pushes the fluid forward) in his hand, only thin layers of skin separating my blood from his. He holds my heart in his mouth, sometimes, tongue skimming over the glans, sucking.

“What do you want?” he whispers. It is not yet light. 

My metaphor gets away from me: I think nothing now but the tunnel of love. If I told him, he would laugh, and we’d end up giggling ( _tunnel of love, Sherlock, honestly_ ), my need dissolving into the drivel on the pages of a romance novel (turgid flesh, engorged member, throbbing cock). Yet it is what it is: He has a gorgeous arse. I want to put my cock in it. I want to be inside him, want to part his cheeks and penetrate him, watch his anus stretch around me, feel his heat. 

I try to speak but am rendered inarticulate. 

He pats me gently. Rolls over. Gets up. I hear him in the bathroom. He returns, turns to his side so I can get behind him. We make spoons for a moment before lifts his leg, hooking it over my hips, giving me space.

“In me, yeah?” he whispers.

I swallow, nod. 

He has the lube. He reaches down between his legs, tugs my cock from where it’s nestled between his cheeks. He makes me wet, then gently rubs the head of my penis over his hole. I shudder. “There you go, love. Mmmm, go slow.”

John sighs at the breach. I hold his leg and try not to immediately ejaculate.

He whispers encouragements, groans when I hit his prostate. He makes the most beautiful sounds, moans and sighs. He says my name, he says monosyllabic words like “yes” and “love” and “fuck” and all of them are beautiful. I come in a matter of minutes, gasping against his back.

When I can breathe properly I replace my cock (still rather turgid) with my fingers and finish him off with my mouth; I swallow him down and leave him panting.

After, my heart is back where it belongs, my cock a simple penis once more. John lies on his back, arms under his head. I curl to his side, place my head on his shoulder. I can smell him best this way, can listen to the thump of his heart.

Our resting heart rates are not the same. My blood pressure is naturally lower than his is. Try as I may, I can never get our heartbeats to match up.

Yet they tick on, our bodies’ metronomes. I place my palm on his chest. My heart aches with love; it throbs with life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was challenged by JanusJupiter on Tumblr to write something erotic with the word "moist" and make it actually work. Erotic and gross. My favorite combo. Keepin' it real, yo.

John had to stretch, reach his arms down to palm Sherlock’s buttocks, spread them apart, expose the cleft, slick and moist with the sweat of his exertion, to the cool air of the flat. 

Above him, Sherlock moaned. “Touch it,” he whispered. John tried to ignore the ache in his balls as he mouthed at pebbled nipple, inching his fingers closer to where Sherlock wanted them. It was an awkward angle and Sherlock was working hard, keeping himself raised on one arm while holding their cocks together between them. “John,” Sherlock groaned, breath heaving in and out. “Now. Touch it.” 

And so John did, the pad of his middle finger pressing insistently against the hot, wrinkled skin before slipping easily in. They’d been lovers long enough for John to know that it wasn’t direct prostate stimulation that brought Sherlock over the edge, but rather the sensation of being penetrated, his hole being teased and caressed and massaged that could bring him to completion almost every time. 

“That’s it,” John murmured, encouraging. “Yeah. That’s it. Love to touch you here. Fuck your arse with my finger.” 

Sherlock trembled above him, breath heaving. God, the sounds he made.

His pace was faltering, hips growing erratic, but John kept at it, sliding his finger tip in and out with every thrust, shallowly fucking Sherlock as he could with his cock or tongue, all while delighting in the heavy body atop his, the hard prick rubbing against his own within the circle of Sherlock’s large hands. If only he had a mirror, could see the sweat of Sherlock’s lower back, the clench of his bum, the cheeks parted around his hand, John’s own finger dipped in to the first knuckle...

Orgasm left him breathless and boneless and he was quite sure he’d die smothered by Sherlock’s shoulder. He was sweating profusely now, his belly was a wet mess and his finger was still tucked securely away in Sherlock’s plump backside. He wriggled it experimentally, and Sherlock grumbled, “You’re trying to kill me,” into the pillows. 

“Mmm. Not today,” John said, extracting his finger and giving the soft hairs of Sherlock’s cleft a bit of a pet. “Umph. Up. Can’t breathe.”

“Need a shower,” said Sherlock after a long stretch. “I stink.”

“You really do. But not yet. Give us a snuggle.”

Sherlock turned over and let John spoon up behind him. John kissed his back and pushed his wet genitals up against Sherlock’s still-warm backside as he slid his arm over Sherlock’s belly. They clasped hands; Sherlock drew up John’s knuckles to be kissed before quickly shoving them back under the duvet. 

“Go wash. Your hands smell like my arse.”

“I like your arse.”

“You’re filthy,” Sherlock chastised, but John could hear the mirth in his voice.

“You wouldn’t have me any other way,” John replied. And he was right.


End file.
